The Recumbent Gypsy By Matthew Banash

The Recumbent Gypsy

My grandmother
Was a gypsy
She just didn’t know it

There are swabs of spit
That return a sequence
Telling me
What can never be known-

The sun on her face
On Easter morning
An autumn chill in her hands
And everything else

Between the dates
On a tombstone
That no one visits

Matthew Banash was born and raised in Pennsylvania and has lived in the Carolinas for the past twenty-five years. He has an M.A. in English from Clemson University and writes poetry and short fiction as well as jazz reviews. His work has appeared in Poetry Quarterly, The Blue Nib, Micro Fiction Monday, Crack the Spine, Bridge Eight, Barren Magazine and Maryland Literary Review.

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